


Harbinger

by Pachupichi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 2000-3000 words, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, One Shot, Ron's here but not really tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pachupichi/pseuds/Pachupichi
Summary: It had been a week since the war had ended, and they emerged the victors.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Kudos: 102





	Harbinger

_Dammit,_ she thought, as two arrows whizzed past her head.

They were obviously getting more persistent.

Gritting her teeth, she laid her head down on her brown destrier’s neck, trying to hold on as she let the mare’s gallops and sharp breaths drown out the dread that started to brew in her stomach. Never had she any need for reins or saddles, but she would’ve loved to hold on to something now—if only to calm herself down. Pallas, on her part, felt her mistress’s distress and flew deeper into the forest, jumping bushes and skirting trees, desperately trying to lose their pursuers.

Their current predicament had been an incredibly stupid mistake, she thought to herself, as she ducked a low-hanging limb. For the first few hours of the battle, her armies had been winning, gaining far more ground much quicker than they had planned. Her Goddess-given gift of premonition was on alert the entire time, of course, but that was to be expected as she hacked and trampled and hexed her way through countless bodies. A veritable sea of dead surrounded her, a testament to what she thought was victory.

But it was not that simple.

 _Nothing_ _was ever that simple_ , she berated herself.

As they had fought their way deeper into the opposing line, the enemy’s reserve cavalry appeared behind them in a move to flank them, both the soldiers and their mounts looking fresh faced and ready to end the fight. They had not anticipated that at all. _She_ had not anticipated it. Her scouts were the best in the world, and they were quite adamant that the enemy only had a few thousand men left in their ranks. The war had already been raging for months, and they had thus far won every battle. She had no reason to believe that they would not end the fighting today. But as the white plumes of her knights started to fall one by one to the hard earth, and as her magical reserves started to empty, she quickly realized that they’ve been horribly wrong—and quite abominably surrounded.

She had blown her battle horn then—three short bursts—sounding a retreat for the first time in her life.

She didn’t know how many of her soldiers were able to cut through the soldiers at their backs and run, but by some miracle, she and Pallas were able to escape through a narrow gap in the enemy’s line. Still, as Queen, she had already anticipated to be pursued.

And she was. By no less than a warlock and two archers.

An expertly aimed spell from the warlock felled a large branch in front of them, but Pallas was quick to adjust, turning sharply before the branch could stop their escape. The Queen smiled a little as she heard two horses fall behind them, clearly getting a taste of their own tricks.

Looking behind, she saw that only the warlock was left in pursuit of her. She tasted bile then, as she realized with abject horror that he was wielding a staff tipped with the skull of a child—he was one of the last three Harbingers, warlocks that gathered strength from harnessing the innocence of magical children. She had thought that the enemy wouldn’t stoop so low as to employ such foul creatures, but for the thousandth time that day she had been proven wrong.

She _had_ to kill him.

Pallas sensed her mistress’s command as they entered a large clearing. The mare neighed in defiance and galloped impossibly faster as her mistress flooded her thoughts with senses of duty and honor and that the horse needs to leave her _now_ and to tell her wife to prepare for a siege.

There really was only one way to kill a Harbinger.

When it was clear that the horse wasn’t going to follow her orders, she lifted her head. Gritting her teeth again, she prayed to the Goddess before jumping off of her back, her leather-clad body crashing onto hard ground. She rolled with the impact and, using the momentum to come to her feet, she turned, ready to face the oncoming warlock. Behind her, Pallas galloped further away, not realizing that her mistress was gone from her as the mare concentrated on escaping.

In front of the Queen, the Harbinger and his horse were approaching fast, the sound of twigs snapping as the warlock crashed through the forest coming ever closer. With a deep breath the Queen braced herself, mustering up what little magic she had left. She was probably going to burn up and die because of this, but it would be worth it.

When the creature was finally in range, Fleur Delacour, Queen of the Veela, raised her hands towards him. Magic filled her palms as her breathing slowed, her heart and soul accepting her fate.

With a small smile, she whispered her spell.

_Reducto._

* * *

It had been a week since the war had ended, and they emerged the victors.

She had been in the dining hall when two messengers arrived, their faces red with exertion and shining with sweat. The sense of urgency that filled the room with their arrival had her rising to her feet. Her face paled as the messenger on the right told her that they had lost the battle and to prepare for a siege. The enemy had more men than they first thought, and it would only be a matter of time before they were at the gates of the capital.

She had hastily started to bark orders then, but the second messenger quickly announced the arrival of the neighboring kingdom’s forces. Apparently, the blonde snake of a king that ruled the neighboring kingdom had finally been convinced of the dire circumstances both their lands faced and had sent an army twice the number of the enemy’s remaining men.

She had been there, in the final battle, at the field a mere five miles away from the city. Only after she and her other sorceresses killed two Harbingers and she had depleted her magical reserves did she go back to the castle—she would’ve been useless without her magic anyway; she never did learn to wield a blade like her wife had.

Her wife.

It had been a week since they had won and ended the war. It had been a week since the city celebrated the victory. And it had been a week since her wife went missing.

She had sent almost all of her scouts to find her when they told her that the Queen of the Veela had not been amongst their forces when they arrived back at the capital. None of the generals knew where she could be, or if she even was anymore.

She had confined herself to their bedroom then, spending most of her waking hours staring out beyond the city walls and to the valley beyond, praying to see the blonde riding home—riding back to her. But when she woke up this morning, a certain redheaded knight—her childhood friend—knocked on the door and reminded her that the kingdom needed her. Their people needed her.

And so here she was, in the small council room, commuting sentences and drafting punishments towards the kingdom that antagonized theirs for months. Between her and her wife, she was the one with an aptitude for governing; her parents had prepared her for the role, after all. But her wife, even only as a half-blooded Veela, never was one for politics. The Veela never even thought to prepare their queen for governing; as the second-born daughter, she would still hold the title of Queen, but in name only. Her role would only be as a princess insofar as the Veela are concerned. And princesses, more often than not, get married off.

It was a good thing, then, that the two of them were already deeply in love and mated before their parents decided to wed them together.

She smiled fondly at the thought as she wrote her signature on yet another piece of parchment. It was certainly an unconventional marriage, but a happy one. She would govern, and her wife would “help” by napping in their bedroom. Not always, of course. She proved to be quite the commander of their armies, and she made it a point to train with the soldiers at least once a week.

Of course, that also meant that her wife went to war.

She hadn’t wanted her to go—their generals were more than capable, and some of them had been in command since she was a girl. But her wife wouldn’t hear any of it. They had fought about it for days, often sleeping in different rooms when it got too heated. She understood what her wife was saying, of course, but the Veela and their blasted sense of duty and honor and glory sounded like a recipe to get the love of her life killed.

She bit her tears back at that. _Govern now, grieve later_ , this was the mantra that got her through her days now.

The redheaded knight standing behind her high-backed chair cleared his throat. She looked up at him, brows furrowed. He never really made his presence known while they were in the small council room, even if they were the only ones there. Nevertheless, he jerked his chin towards the door, and it was only then that she noticed the knocking.

“Enter,” She called, trying not to let her voice waver.

A wave of nausea came over her as she saw yet another messenger enter the room. He had looked just as winded as those two that brought her the news last week, and his face was so pale that she wondered if the sun had never seen his skin before. Sweat beaded down his face and soaked into his thick brown tunic. The poor boy had to have run far, it seemed.

“Your Majesty,” he panted out before she could ask anything, “We found her—the Queen—and her horse.”

Her eyes widened as his words sunk in.

“Alive?” She asked, voice a soft whisper as she tried to smother her hope before it could consume her. She was afraid of it, that hope. She knew that if it took root in her heart, it would be all the more painful to have it ripped from her.

The young man, near panting, almost stumbled over his words in a rush to convey his message.

“Yes, Majesty,” He replied.

He paused to take a breath before continuing on, his voice dropping into a soft, almost reverent tone as he continued steadily.

“In your bedchamber, Majesty. The Madam—Madam Pomfrey is trying to keep her alive.”

* * *

For as long as Hermione Granger can remember, Fleur had always looked exceptionally regal. Her blonde hair was always either neatly tied or braided into an elegant bun. Her face was always calm and collected. Even when she was training with the soldiers, she held herself with such grace and dignity that Hermione often joked that she looked far more queenly than her.

Nothing about her wife seemed regal now.

The Queen of the Veela lay utterly still on their soft green blankets, Madam Pomfrey standing over her as she continued working. The leather armor that Fleur liked to wear was singed in places and caked with mud, and it seemed that each of her fingers were filed down to the second knuckle. Half of Fleur’s face was a shiny red, the burns weeping as they tried to heal. Her long, blonde hair was gone, burnt off up to the root. But it wasn’t any physical fire that had burned her, Hermione could tell, since it looked like her wife’s face was still smoking even though the skin had already started to heal. With growing horror, the Queen realized that her stupid Veela had depleted her magical reserves entirely; the smoke signaling that her body was still reeling from the shock of not having anything more in store.

She was only stopped from launching herself towards the bed with a quick glare from the elder woman.

“Madam,” Hermione started, voice trembling, “I am her mate. I can—”

The old witch shook her head fervently. “No, Your Majesty,” she replied, pale eyes serious. “At least, not yet. I don’t know how much magic she has lost, and giving her anything more right now would likely utterly destroy her.”

Hermione nodded in understanding and sat down at her desk. She wanted nothing more than to hold her wife once more, but she knew better than to interrupt such a delicate procedure.

And so the Queen sat there, taking all of her work in their room, refusing to leave her wife’s side. Madam Pomfrey, for her part, didn’t look up from her patient, as hours upon hours ticked by.

“Her memories are a mess… But it seems she’s fought a Harbinger,” the Madam whispered, long after the meat and cheese they had been provided went cold. As the afternoon stretched into evening, a servant had arrived with supper and lit the candles in the room. Hermione didn’t spare a single glance toward the spread on her right. The light from the Healer’s hands never so much as sputtered or dimmed even for a moment, a testament to her mastery of her craft.

Hermione was still sitting at her desk, a cup of steaming tea in hand, but she heard what the older woman said, nonetheless. Her wife had also had to face those foul monsters then, and she’d done it alone.

“We killed two of them last week,” she replied softly, setting her teacup down with a clunk, as bile threatened to overwhelm her.

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “Since she survived, I’d say it is probable that she won,” the Madam said, “And that means that those creatures are gone. She knew she would get hurt, but she also knew it would be worth it.”

Hermione could only grunt in response. But the old woman chuckled before continuing, “You two have always been like this, you know? Always getting into trouble. Sometimes the life-threatening kind.”

“It’s not like _we_ started the war—”

“You misunderstand me, Majesty,” the Madam interrupted, looking the Queen in the eyes for the first time since she began the healing. Hermione felt her soul being searched as the Healer’s pale blue eyes pierced her, as ancient as always.

“I’ve watched you both since you were children, if you remember,” the Madam continued, eyes twinkling with wisdom, “the Goddess and her Fates try to give us mortals as much freedom as possible, but you two have always been intertwined. We select our own paths, but we can never control the winding of life—no human or witch or Veela can, for that matter.”

Hermione frowned at the statement. “Are you telling me that my wife is injured because the Goddess demands it?” She asked, and for all that she was exhausted, a bit of authority slipped into her tone.

Madam Pomfrey chuckled again at that, shaking her head in response.

“On the contrary, I think that it is us who make these demands, whether we know it or not. It is only in the aftermath of our decisions that the Fates do their work.”

The glow from the Madam’s hands dimmed until her palms returned to their naturally tanned color.

“Fleur still had some of her magic left,” Madam Pomfrey said, as she started towards the door of the bedchamber. “I’ve managed to heal her fully. It will only be a few moments before she wakes up. I shall be back in an hour.”

Hermione nodded dumbly. “Thank you, for everything.”

The old woman smiled and bowed, leaving both Queens to themselves.

Hermione walked slowly over to the bed as the door shut softly behind the Healer, knees trembling as she was finally able to take in the state of her wife. The Madam had indeed done an excellent job healing the other Queen. Fleur’s face was still a little dirty, but there were no remnants of her burn. The long, flowing blonde hair that she loved to play with was back as well, spread but not disheveled. Taking Fleur’s hands, she noticed that not a fingertip was missing from the blonde’s slender fingers.

“’Ermione…?” A soft, raspy voice whispered, calling out to her.

It was then that the tears started to fall, and that she finally allowed hope to blossom in her heart.

Hermione could only smile as she saw Fleur’s eyes starting to flutter open, revealing the deep blue eyes that she so adored.

“It’s me, love,” Hermione whispered, squeezing Fleur’s hands assuredly. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to KoshkaDevyshka for the extensive editing <3


End file.
